Sermons represent copyrighted material and are not to be reproduced, transcribed, or used in any form without the permission of Rev. Chris Moore or the speaker for that day.

Psalm 27:1, 7-14 (The Inclusive Psalms translation)

1 Corinthians 1:10-18 (New Revised Standard translation)

Today we hold our annual meeting, a chance to revisit the year past and vision the year ahead, a time to enjoy good food and good company, another chapter in a tradition that has gone on for 70 years. Yes, 70 years! This year marks Fellowship Congregational United Church of Christ’s 70^th year of existence and while we’re saving the big celebration for year 75, it does seem like a good time to briefly discuss the history of this church. We began in April of 1950, officially according to the paperwork in my office, gathered together from a split of Second Presbyterian Church. The split, source of many new churches, came from a disagreement over membership. See, the founding pastor of Fellowship, The Reverend Dr. Jackson Smith, had moved to Tulsa from a place where segregation was not as prominent as it was here in Tulsa. So, when some black folks began attending Second Presbyterian, he welcomed them and the rest of the church – or at least a lot of the rest of the church – did not.

The Presbytery, the larger governing body of that church, asked Rev. Smith to resign, but the congregation, despite vocal grumbling, voted against his resignation. Some began to develop a plan “B”, in case these troubles continued and, soon after, the Presbytery vetoed the congregational vote and Dr. Smith was ousted. So, Plan “B” kicked in and on March 4^th, 1950, about 200 attended initial services at the Seventh Day Adventist Church at 9^th and south New Haven. In attendance was the Rev. Royal J. Gibson, Conference Minister of the Congregational Christian Churches. And on April 5^th, 1950, at an organizational meeting held at Temple Israel, at 16^th and Rockford, Fellowship was born. The charter roll had 300 names. At the second anniversary on April 6^th, 1952, the new church site was dedicated at 29^th and Harvard, the contract valued at $60,000. The rest, as they say, is history.

But that’s not all. After the initial split, and the reason that Dr. Smith left Second Presbyterian, you’d think that racial division would not be part of the rest of the story at Fellowship. And you’d be wrong. It wasn’t but 6 years after the initial foundation of Fellowship that membership for an African-American couple was brought up again…and denied. It almost split the church once more until foundational values were reasserted and, in 1957, the congregation voted (not unanimously, mind you) to open membership to all persons regardless of race or class…a vote that would have to be revisited as we drew our circle wider. We also in that same year took in a displaced European family, the first of many families we would protect as refugees to this country, later ones coming from Cuba and Vietnam and Cambodia. All of these acts let us see ourselves in a new light, and re-imagine what it meant to be church.

A few fun facts I uncovered when I found a whole bunch of historical documents…

• In 1963, FCC hosted First Baptist Church North at a dinner – the start of a long connection between our two churches across the racial lines of Tulsa, until leadership changed at First Baptist Church North and we became open and affirming. We’ll have to re-imagine what such connections might look like in the future.
• In 1979, the tower that used to stand above the entrance to the north doors at the main building was removed due to repeated lightning strikes. I will let you make of that what you will.
• Then in 1995, we voted again on an issue that was not unanimous – we became an open and affirming church, one of a tiny few in Tulsa at the time, welcoming what we then called gays and lesbians, later LGBT, then LGBTQ and now LGBTQ+ as we expand that circle, always re-imagining our welcome.

History matters. It tells us not only who we were, but reveals some of who we are. We can see in even a brief glimpse that we are a church that values justice and, like all human endeavors, is not immune to injustice. A glimpse backwards can help propel us forwards, affording us a chance to do some re-framing.

I spent the end of last week at my alma mater, Phillips Seminary, for the Remind & Renew Conference, where, amongst others, the good Rev. Dr. Ward was featured heavily as he rounds out his tenure at Phillips. I do have to say that I am glad that Richard was not my preaching professor because I would have had to have spent the last 6 years staring at him – or him staring at me – during every sermon. However, I have grown increasingly aware of how good a trade that would have been as I witness his teaching for friends and colleagues, as I see his great skill and wish I could have had more of it shaping me…at least in an official manner, for I think I’ve learned a lot from you by proximity alone! I say all of that to butter him up a little because I’m getting ready to steal a metaphor directly from his talk right now.

Richard spoke of trips back to his home in South Carolina to visit his mother and sister and to kind of “go through” things since his father died last year. As they looked through pictures that had been sitting on shelves, perhaps for decades, they noticed that the frames were cracking, or the glue was separating on the corners, or the glass was broken. Of course they wanted to keep the memories that the pictures represent, so they had to reframe them, to move them from one set of boundaries to another …not so the pictures could be done away with, but so that they could be preserved in a new way.

A metaphorical reframing can come in lots of forms. Paul speaks of reframing, without ever using the word or metaphor in his letters as a critical component of following Jesus. He calls it dying to one life and being born to another. The reality of reframing is not a new thing to us, some of us have lost someone dear to us and had it change our identity as partner, parent or caregiver. Sometimes we lose a job, or we are moved by our parents, or we get the diagnosis, or we find some other transformational impact visited upon us without our choice. What is reframing like when it is something we are choosing? I mean, let’s be honest. None of us have to be Christian…or, obviously, we can choose to call ourselves Christian and not really adjust our lives at all.

As Paul writes these letters to his churches, he is not building a new religion, but rather trying to help the Gentiles – all people who aren’t Jewish – to be in relationship with God in the way that Jews are, only through this path that Jesus has set forth. He’s teaching people who are fed up and oppressed by the culture in which they live. He’s telling them, like Jesus did, that in order for them to see this new world, they must first have to believe it. It’s not as simple as going to the crafts store, getting the right size and undoing those little pins or the turny-things that fit into grooves to hole the picture in place. It’s not changing the curtains or repackaging the old way of being. Paul speaks of re-framing as soul repair, as repentance, as transformation. You can’t continue with the status quo and be people of the kin-dom. Somebody has snitched on you Corinthians, Paul writes. They say you are building factions, making a big deal out of which person baptized you instead of realizing what baptism is for in the first place. It sounds, Paul says in so many words, like you don’t get it. There’s no re-framing going on at all…you’re just shuffling around pictures on the mantle.

I think we’d do well to remember that these “churches” Paul writes to in his letters are nothing like ours. They have no brick and mortar structure, no mortgage or insurance payments, no parking lots to re-stripe, no HVAC units to replace, no argument about pews versus chairs. They aren’t places that people come to once a week to hear a good word. They are social change engines. They are base communities in the midst of an empire that doesn’t want them around. They are the resistance. Only Paul is informing them that they aren’tresisting…they’re just doing the same stuff with a different name. He gets mean…Paul calls them out on their warping of baptism and literally thanks God that he did not baptize them, though he remembers mid-sentence that he baptized Crispus and Gaius…and then remembers the household of Stephanas…and then admits there may have been more. The angry retort is kind of muted at this point, but who can remember all those baptisms? He just wants them to hear that if they’re looking for wisdom the way the world sees it, if they’re measuring their faith with the same metrics as culture, if they’re trying to “succeed” at following Jesus the same way they succeed as a Roman citizen, they’ve come to the wrong place. Paul looks around Imperial Rome and he sees injustice of the highest levels, oppression, inequality, suffering, and he believes that the kingdom, the new age being ushered in by Jesus’ resurrection, will be a kingdom of justice and peace that does not come at the tip of a spear. But in order to establish that kingdom, we have to live it. To be faithful, in Paul’s estimation, is to be resistant.

I wonder what Paul would be writing now, with a church having so much distance between what it says and what it does, when the words in red in our Bibles have been taught as the guidelines for life, and yet are ignored when they are politically inconvenient. And here we are, at Fellowship, where, for the past 70 years, we, too, have wrestled with how to be a Christian and live in Tulsa, Oklahoma which, despite all it’s grandiose claims, governs itself much more with the power of Rome than the power of God.

That assertion alone is why we ought to strive to treat one another differently, if only when we are in the walls of this campus. Our meetings run differently, our conversations a contrast to what we hear beyond, our decision-making impacted by the realities of the world, but driven by another set of values…at least on our best days. For this is what our history (and our now) say to us – we must still be about the work of re-framing…our selves, our church, our world.

The psalmist writes, “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” It is an act of reframing, for the sentences around this statement reveal a person who is very much afraid, and likely for good reason. And here we are, with all of the uncertainty and angst around us, with the problems we can see daily running through our social media feeds or delivered on the news source of our choice, vying for our attention as we engage in a race to see who can be the most “woke” or the most outraged, and we often lose the chance to see the kin-dom all around us…a reframing that helps make the kin-dom real, and helps us be less afraid, for we have each other and a God whose promises are trustworthy.

This is what I see when I look at you, church. Not with precision or perfection…but with participation. I see you eagerly cooking food for the hungry, volunteering at the front desk of hospitals and shelters, collecting endless plastic bags to be woven into sleeping pads, talking with one another, building relationships with people who’ve never had a church that accepted them, visiting those who are sick or in prison, and seeking ways to talk about what matters.

The harvest is ready and the workers, it always seems, Jesus, are few. But we are here, at a place that has often sought a vision for the kin-dom, and been willing – albeit sometimes slowly – to draw it’s circle wider, to sacrifice for what is next and to look for the kin-dom all around us.

In his sermon on the 30^th anniversary of his pastorate here, The Rev. Dr. Russell Bennett asked from this pulpit that the people of Fellowship use this church as a place to awaken their spiritual gifts. He, too, used Paul for the sermon, only a different cut from

1 Corinthians, one about many spiritual gifts, but the same Spirit. He asked people to seek those gifts in themselves, and to consider finding a home for those gifts in the church, because they “serve God’s purpose to heal a fragmented world.” “It’s why the church exists,” he wrote, “to be an instrument of God’s peace and justice. It’s why we pray for, “thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth…And why we organize, have meetings, develop budgets and programs; it is that we might be a vehicle of God’s Grace in the world.” That, I would say, is reframing. We do the work here, the re-imagining here, the reframing here – so we can carry that out into the world and begin to see it there…so we’ll have the eyes for it.

This is a time for reframing, my friends. How will the reframing we have chosen help us to navigate the reframing that we are not choosing? How will we make meaning out of the noise that is going on around us and seek newness in the midst of turmoil? How will we seek the next chapter for us as a church, drawing our circle wider, growing in spirit and working for justice? I don’t know what the next year will bring for Fellowship, much less the next 70. But I do know that we will have to welcome again the Holy Spirit among us, teaching us, opening us to newness, showing us risks to take that, if we have the courage, will bring us closer to God.

May God be with us on the way. Amen.

Sermons represent copyrighted material and are not to be reproduced, transcribed, or used in any form without the permission of Rev. Chris Moore or the speaker for that day.

1 Corinthians 1:1-9 & John 1:29-42

It is this time of year that the words of Dr. King rise up again in the media, on posts and in speeches. Tomorrow, along with a predictably cold forecast, there will be a parade in his honor, remembering the man who helped usher in a civil rights movement that changed the landscape and, hopefully, will continue to change the landscape, for I dare say he’d believe the work is far from done. Yet this honoring often comes whitewashed – and I use that term deliberately. It gives us a sanitized King, like we often get an edited version of Jesus. So we hear the lifting up of “content of character” or “I have a dream,” but don’t hear, “One has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws,” or “freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor, it must be demanded by the oppressed.” We will be handed images of people holding hands across color lines, or requests for a day of service at the food bank in his name, but we will likely not be challenged with King’s ideas that, “True compassion is more than flinging a coin to a beggar. It comes to see that an edifice which produces beggars needs restructuring.”

Often, especially as time goes by, we domesticate our prophets, lest their words convict us still. And what is true of Dr. King is true also of Christ Jesus and the Apostle Paul. There are lots of folks, some seated right here, who don’t hold Paul in very high regard because his words have some pretty terrible history to them. Interestingly, the latest research from scholars has shifted from work on the historical Jesus to work on Paul, and the discoveries reveal that what has happened to the teachings of Jesus and the teachings of Dr. King has also happened with Paul, maybe even to a much higher degree. It’s important clarification because, it could easily be said, the church is as much structured around Paul’s decrees, maybe even more, as it is the teachings of Jesus. This is why we’re joining in this “unpacking” of Paul in the adult Sunday School class on First Corinthians – 9:30am in classroom one, if you’d like to come.

What we do know is that Paul writes to churches struggling with their identity, which makes sense as they all live into the “way of Jesus,” something brand new that, at times, Paul seems to be making up as he goes along. But these churches are also fighting the culture around them, a culture that has many moral question marks, a culture that dehumanizes women and promotes the economic exploitation of people who are deemed “less than” through an elaborate and enforced societal norm. The bulk of Paul’s instructions, particularly to this church in Corinth, is to not engage with that behavior. Don’t start with the categorization, building hierarchies within the church. For when you do, you begin to reinforce all of the rest of the stuff in the culture you are rejecting.

It’s like trying to hate hate. It doesn’t work. You have to change the whole dynamic. You cannot drive out hate with hate, only with love. And when you do try to drive out hate with hate, then you bring all that stuff that comes along with hate – inequality, oppression, bigotry, injustice. It’s a system, Paul says without saying it, a system that requires us to re-wire ourselves, to not only have a baptism, where we die to one life and are reborn to another, but also to continue after that baptism, to keep going, to keep dying to that old life, challenging our assumptions and re-wiring all of these things we’ve been taught as part of a culture that is not the “way of Jesus.”

John’s gospel makes this same claim on us, first having John the Baptist identify Jesus as the “lamb of God,” a phrase we might think signifies a sacrificial symbol. Yet, in the ancient world, it is more likely an astrological metaphor, the beginning point of the cosmos is Aries, the ram…the point from which all other constellations are drawn…the apex, in John’s metaphorically rich gospel, of a cosmic Christ, come to set right the balance of the world with the redemptive work that God will be doing through him.

John writes at the uppermost level of metaphor, making Jesus and his story incredibly symbolic of a larger struggle between good and evil, of the literal restoration of the universe in God’s grand vision. But in both Paul’s case and in John’s gospel, the call is the same – come and see. Jesus encounters Andrew and Simon Peter and asks them, “What are you looking for?” They reply, strangely, “Rabbi, where are you staying?” And he says – come and see. And these two invitations – “come and see” and “stay, remain, abide” – they linger in John’s gospel, inviting us to a deeper expression of our faith.

This week we remember the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr…a pivotal and prophetic voice in all of our lives, whether we can remember the news accounts directly from the morning paper or we have learned from stock news reel footage, movie adaptations and the accounts of history. His name will be raised, as it always is at this time of year. And there’ll be people singing his praises who wouldn’t have uttered his name unless it was attached to an epithet during his life. For we cannot forget that this person who most corporations in the city will construct a giant float in honor of tomorrow was once the most hated man in America. What might happen if we stayed, if we remained, if we abided with his example and his words of moral meaning? What if we could actually see a thread from Jesus to Paul to Dr. King, woven through history asking us to take seriously those things which actually make for justice and peace?

As I do each year on MLK weekend, I re-read “Letter From a Birmingham Jail,” a letter that I think deserves to be in our Biblical canon alongside Paul’s letters. Writing just like Paul often did, from a jail cell, Dr. King lays out his reasons for being in Birmingham, where he is labeled an “outsider,” and calls for justice in the most salient and, sadly, still relevant ways I can imagine. He writes,

“More and more I feel that the people of ill will have used time much more effectively than have the people of good will. We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people. Human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability; it comes through the tireless efforts of men willing to be co workers with God, and without this hard work, time itself becomes an ally of the forces of social stagnation.”

Dr. King takes to task the clergy who are supposedly “supportive” of his goals, but who decry his methods, the ones he calls “white moderates.” Wait, they say…just give it time, as if people of color have not given their oppression time. They call him an extremist, which he writes was initially something that he wanted to refute. But then he wondered…

“Was not Jesus an extremist for love…Was not Amos an extremist for justice…Was not Paul an extremist for the Christian gospel…

So the question is not whether we will be extremists,
but what kind of extremists we will be. Will we be extremists for hate or for love?
Will we be extremists for the preservation of injustice or for the extension of justice?”

As we join in celebrations in his honor and hear politicians and pundits praise him, can we also remember that at the time of his murder, according to a 1968 Harris poll, 75% of those polled disapproved of him, largely because he was calling out the injustice of Vietnam and the cruelty of unfettered capitalism in what he called a “reconstruction of the entire society, a revolution of values,” one which would “look uneasily on the glaring contrast of poverty and wealth with righteous indignation.” So, how does Dr. King enjoy approval ratings close to 90% today? Is it because we water down his message, numbing it with platitudes and much more easily digestible snippets? It’s easy to raise his call to love without recognizing that such love is by it’s nature costly and sacrificial. That love, just as Jesus told us, asks us to come and see, and, in this case, to notice how often we take the narrow remembrances of Dr. King’s successes and cast aside the ways that he called us to stay with that vision, to remain dedicated to social change, to abide in our awareness of injustice.

I often wonder, what would Dr. King be doing today? What would he be fighting for today? What would he be protesting? Would he be taking a knee during the national anthem? Would he have called for marriage equality? Would he have been at the front of the protest march shouting, “Black Lives Matter!?” Would he be lending his voice to the victims of police shootings, for medicaid expansion, for undrinkable water in Flint, or a pipeline through Standing Rock? Would he be calling for the ERA to finally be passed in every state, or seeking for money to be taken out of politics, for gerrymandering to cease? Surely he would be appalled at the setbacks in voting rights! And he would still have all of the same things to lament about our economic system, which exploits for the benefit of those at the top, without regard to a living wage or equitable sharing of profit.

“I have a dream,” he once famously said, “that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” Would he still have that dream, only expanded by drawing a circle ever wider, by “staying, remaining, and abiding” with the Love and Spirit given to us in Christ Jesus, the same Love that can open our hearts, expand our circles, ever calling on us to see a liberative God at work all around us?

Oh, friends…there is still much work to do. There is much work to do right here in Tulsa, where we see report after report indicate that our policing has serious racial disparities, something that communities of color don’t need a report to verify, and we’re getting ready to hire a new police chief. Right here our own county jail participates in the injustice machine that is our so-called immigration policy, making political, fear-based statements out of women seeking shelter from violence with their children, and families desperate for a better life. Right now, we see a total failure to adequately fund public education, a demand written in our own state constitution, while tax breaks are given to corporations and millionaires. We close hospitals and isolate families and even entire communities from access to healthcare because we won’t expand Medicaid. Criminal justice, LGBTQ+ rights, women’s healthcare, voting rights…the chances to stay, remain and abide in the lessons given to us by Jesus, Paul and Dr. King are plentiful.

But let us not make the mistake of thinking that our political lives are somehow separate from our faith lives. Let us not take these moments of political crisis as a time to leave our faith, but instead to stay, remain and abide in it. Now please hear me, I did not say anything about our partisan lives, for that is too narrow a definition. Too often we concern ourselves with the puny language of partisanship, looking to promote one party over another, turning politics into a competition, a zero-sum game. We lose out on the moral ground that ought to bolster our political lives and inform the work of politics, which is the method by which we live our morals and ethics into the public sphere, especially in a pluralistic society like ours. So I tell you again, like Jesus said to his disciples and Paul reminded his churches – come and see. Come and see what happens when you take the outrage you might rightly feel and focus it through love. Come and see what occurs when you see injustice and call it out with compassion. Come and see what comes to be when you realize that working to make the world a better place, whether that is feeding a hungry person a meal, writing a letter to the Mayor to express the qualities you seek in a new police chief, or standing together to demand better treatment of immigrants, it is actually participating in the redemptive work that God is doing through Christ Jesus. It IS our faith.

Dr. King’s letter ends like this, written in the vernacular of his time:

I hope this letter finds you strong in the faith. I also hope that circumstances will soon make it possible for me to meet each of you, not as an integrationist or a civil-rights leader but as a fellow clergyman and a Christian brother. Let us all hope that the dark clouds of racial prejudice will soon pass away and the deep fog of misunderstanding will be lifted from our fear drenched communities, and in some not too distant tomorrow the radiant stars of love and brotherhood will shine over our great nation with all their scintillating beauty.

I think we’re still hoping, Dr. King…still dreaming.

May it come to be.

Sermons represent copyrighted material and are not to be reproduced, transcribed, or used in any form without the permission of Rev. Chris Moore or the speaker for that day.

Acts 10:34-43 & Matthew 3:13-17

I picture it as a typical day, maybe early in the morning, before the heat has set in and people are gathered at the river Jordan. Only they’re not there for any baptism. They are there to wash their clothes or their bodies, to gather water for the stove at home, to give the baby and the grandfather something to drink during the afternoon. Whatever we might say about baptism, and this baptism in particular, it takes place in the same fluidity that marks our everyday life. The waters that wash Jesus and pronounce him “Son of God” are the same waters that will wash the scab on a someone’s arm, and provide a cup of tea, and clean the amniotic fluid and blood off a newborn.

Baptism comes right in the middle of the everyday. This life-changing, transformative, epiphanous event is acknowledged with the same substance that constitutes 60% of our bodies and seventy percent of the earth already. Water in Genesis is both deliverance and destruction, in Exodus it becomes the very presence of God in the desert. Isaiah and Amos use water in their imagery of God’s justice, that it might “flow like a mighty stream,” and all of that Hebrew imagery greatly influences the writers of the Greek texts, this “new” testament in whose words we find the basis for one of our sacraments – it’s like transformation is all around us, celebrated in our scriptures, already in us – baptism is just the ritual where we point it out.

There’s not a lot of compelling evidence that baptism is a big deal in the time of Jesus, except amongst a sect of Judaism that lives out in the desert called the Essenes. It is this sect from which John the Baptist apparently comes to the river seeking to baptize people for the forgiveness of sins. These Essenes seemed to have abandoned Jerusalem, opposing the way that the temple was being run, and established a community at a place called Qumran. They had been around for hundreds of years before Jesus, but something about the reign of the Herods and the Roman authority seems to have pushed Essenic membership way up. They still lived in the desert, far away from the city, and they had a code, a set of disciplines by which they all lived. There was an oath to enter the group, a set of dietary and religious practices, and a dedication to communal living, with all possessions shared with one another…oh, and there was this entry ritual that involved immersion in water…maybe this sounds familiar?

But elsewhere in Judaism, the story of ritual immersion is complicated. The tvilah is the act of immersion in a small pool or bath of water, called a mikva. Immersion in water for ritual purification was traditionally used for restoration to a condition of “ritual purity” in very specific circumstances. Later in Jewish development, immersion is required for any converts to Judaism as part of their conversion, something that is true even today. Immersion in the mikvah represents a change in status in regards to purification, restoration, and qualification for full religious participation in the life of the community.

When John stands in the Jordan, however, it is not for conversion for anyone, nor is it for that specific ritual purity. It is for the forgiveness of sins. Repent, he always cries alongside the call to baptism. Repent, or turn around in Aramaic, like you had forgotten your wallet and returned to your house to get it – turn around and head back to where you came from, as if this baptism is restoring people to something of which they are already a part. Then Jesus shows up and John’s first response is, “What are you coming to me for? I need to be baptized by you.” Now, we can read this as a mark of the “sinlessness” in Jesus, John recognizing the Messiah early on and admitting to his own unworthiness, OR we can also see this as Jesus teaching a whole new framework of power and strength, one that he will model right here, in one of the first public appearances, where he takes a chance to puff himself up, to publicly claim this title and “lord” it over people, pardon the pun. Instead Jesus takes the road of humility and weakness, not asking us to do something that he is not willing to do.

And that brings up another point. Christianity holds baptism in high regard. It is recognized almost universally as a sacrament by the thousands of expressions of the Christian faith across the world. And yet, Jesus never asks any of his followers to be baptized, nor does he ever baptize single person in any of the gospels. Paul, however, and the accounts from Acts, are full of baptism stories, often multiple baptism stories for the same persons. Acts has Paul asking people – into what were you baptized? When they say, “the baptism of John,” he tells them to be baptized into Christ Jesus, as if baptism marks the acceptance of something, even the full arrival of something in us.

One of the earliest Christian documents, The Didache, or “the teaching,” has a whole section on baptism that dispels our idiosyncrasies about the ritual and the “proper” way to baptize, a debate that has probably created most of our denominations themselves. It says baptize in cool, running water…unless you don’t have that. Then use standing water…unless you don’t have that. It wanders through about every example of baptism we use, finally saying that the point is the transformation, not the details of the ritual. So, what does it mean to prioritize a baptism that Jesus never performed, that comes in a zillion different versions, and which clearly wasn’t a “one-time” event, not an act of membership as much as an acceptance of something coming to live in us?

For the disciples, our scriptures tell us, baptism meant a whole lot more than they could now vote at the annual meeting of the congregation. It would completely change their lives and, as we heard from the passage read this morning, would bring about the work of the Holy Spirit on them, pestering, cajoling, almost haunting them with visions of God’s love without exceptions, until such a reminder of Grace caused them to question even their own previously held assumptions, their own cultural and implicit bias. That work of the Holy Spirit happens in our everyday lives, only we likely think of it as something else – a conscience, a desire to be a better person, or our ideological dedications guiding our actions.

“I truly understand,” Peter says to the gathered group of gentiles, “that God shows no partiality, but amongst all people anyone who honors God and works justly is acceptable to God.” This bold statement, made quite in opposition to the social customs and religious practices of his time, is a direct result of whatever it is that we call his baptism…in this case, Peter’s receiving of the Holy Spirit through the ritual of water…

a gift that keeps on giving, taking him to new places, opening his heart again and again to deeper love, stronger faith, more courageous compassion. It is the Spirit, accepted into his heart in a baptism, that keeps working on him. Because baptism, as we discover in the subtext of scripture, is not a single event, but a chronic condition, a transformation that takes the rest of our lives to unfold if we have taken it seriously. For God’s Love is never done with us. It is never finished in it’s task of reshaping our hearts and refining our souls. There’s always a way to draw our circle wider, to expand our understanding, to learn and re-learn and even un-learn as we are exposed again to God’s liberating Love.

The Gospel story from this point on in Matthew’s version will be the unfolding of that identity that Jesus has claimed in the baptism, the manifestation of all of the promises that have come up to this point in Matthew’s telling of the story – the visitation of angels, the promise, the dreams, the birth, the magi, the flight to Egypt, all of it part of who Jesus will be, just as our identity is part of who we will be both before and after our own baptism, found in the very real, daily events of our lives.

As a pastor, I have had the privilege of presiding over many baptisms – the baptisms of infants next to their wide-eyed parents, of children who were old enough to not want any part of the sprinkling, teens who had gone through confirmation and chosen a baptism…even adults, some whom late into their adulthood, who chose baptism as a ritual of personal modification. I have baptized people in swimming pools, and in a lake, and I have watched as my own children were baptized by clergy very close to me. We’ve had one right here, during a sermon on baptism. It was as much a surprise to me as it was, I think, to Jeff, who stepped up when I had the UCC version of an altar call. Each one has been unique, not so much because of the ritual itself, but because of the people involved and what it was that we are up to in this thing we call baptism.

We can talk about baptism as “washing away sin,” I suppose, or as the act that brings us into fellowship with the Christian community, but what happens to Jesus, waist deep in the Jordan with John, what he carried on in his ministry, what the disciples first found themselves claimed by and then set about claiming other with is identity. This is my son, the voice calls out from heaven. And it calls out again with every other baptism –

“This is my child, beloved and accepted.” David Lose reminds us in his commentary on this passage that, “We are at a time and place where so many would like to identify and define us by many, many names: Democrat or Republican, conservative or liberal, American or foreigner, gay or straight, rich or poor, Black or White, and the list goes on.”

But that’s not who we are. Baptism claims in us an identity as a beloved child of God, which we often say, or sing, as if it is a healing balm. It can certainly be that, especially for those who have been taught that God hates them, or rejects them. Yet it is also a claim on our identity, a way to mark us in the everyday, so that the Spirit residing in us can be heard…so that we might be listening for – even expecting – that voice to whisper to us when the world comes at us with names that wound, or belittle, with names that challenge or limit, the voice reminds us that we have an identity that is more than just mitigating. It is inspirational, it is hopeful, it is powerful.

We ought to note that it is after this dip in the Jordan that Jesus is sent out into the desert to be tested…afterhis baptism that the adversary comes to tempt him with the shallow and shiny…after his identity is given to him that he faces the world knowing who he is –

a beloved child of God, created in and for Love, with malleable hearts that can grow to receive, experience and give more and more love. It’s an identity that allows us to know that God is at work in us, right now, and we are part of something much larger that just ourselves…we have been called into being by nothing less than the same force behind the Big Bang and the cycle of life itself.

As you leave today, I invite you to dip a finger in the water, to remind you of your own baptism…an event that might have taken place in a church, that probably involved water (but maybe not), a moment that you felt the presence of God surrounding you and lifting you up, an event that may have happened only once for you in your whole life, an event that you may struggle to remember, an event that may have happened when you were very young…you may not even remember it at all. That’s OK. It remembers you.

Amen.

Sermons represent copyrighted material and are not to be reproduced, transcribed, or used in any form without the permission of Rev. Chris Moore or the speaker for that day.

Ephesians 1:3-14 & Matthew 2:1-12

This morning the Gospel comes to us in a familiar tale of Jesus and family post-birth, dealing with the anxieties of their own world. It’s a tale of magi – a word that is a specific reference in the ancient world to Zoroastrian priests, practitioners of astrology and/or astronomy, perhaps, but certainly purveyors of esoteric knowledge. They come to visit Jesus, led by a star, and to pay homage to the “King of the Jews,” which seems to be part of some ancient legend within and beyond Judaism that Matthew employs for his gospel. By telling the story this way, Matthew allows us to read that our heads and our hearts are part of the Jesus story – that the science of astronomy and the faith of spirituality need not be polarized things at all. Matthew allows us to see the global impact of Christ through the Magi, their awareness of nature and the Holy giving us insight into how we might better see our own world today, and pay attention to the signs it is giving us now. And Matthew also allows us again to see God’s action in things that would be labeled “queer,” as these foreign visitors with strange insights and sensibilities are in this story. God specializes in the queer, and I say and use that word intentionally, knowing that there is a lesson in that for the Church right now as well.

The other passage is an introduction to a letter by Paul to the church in Ephesus – not the content of the letter, mind you, but just the greeting. And, most scholars agree, this isn’t even a letter from Paul, it’s one written much later in his name with some different language than he used, and even some different theology. But my point isn’t the language or the theology. It is that this author, following in the model that Paul set in his own letters, thought it was important, before tackling the problems that this church was having, to remind everyone of the basics – “In Christ we have also obtained an inheritance, having been destined according to the purpose of him who accomplishes all things according to his counsel and will, so that we, who were the first to set our hope on Christ, might live for the praise of his glory.” They may not be basics that I would affirm, or language that I would use, but it is a reminder that when faced with problems and turmoil, it’s wise to remind ourselves of the basics, the foundations on which we live.

Following Jesus begins with this night – a celebration that really begins tomorrow, at the end of the 12 days of Christmas – yes, it’s still Christmas – in a day we call Epiphany. It’s not an altogether pleasant story. It is full of struggle, violence, and pain…the plight of the innocent and and the abuse of power, an all-too familiar refrain. In the sentences after we stopped, Herod will go on his murderous rampage, causing the Magi to flee home via another road and the Holy Family to become refugees in Egypt, seeking shelter in a home that is not theirs, fleeing danger and oppression as an act of desperation, as another part of this Epiphany story that ought to shape our hearts right now. When we sentimentalize this scripture, we lose all of it’s power to transform us, just as when we forget the basics, we begin to think that church is a club, that faith is a transaction, that our baptism is about joining something instead of transforming our hearts…then we can much more easily forget the incredible, incriminating, illuminating power that comes when we say that Jesus is Lord…because it means that Caesar, or the Emperor, or the King, or the President, is NOT. The glory of the Magi and the Epiphany story comes in knowing that there is another message – a message of warning to those who are trying to stop the flow of God’s gracious and liberating work in the world; you can do whatever you want, pull any strings you want, commit any atrocity you want, but you will not win. Love wins.

That’s a message that both inspires and indicts us even today – 2000 and 20 years later. It’s a message that comes after the “yes.” As Mary and Joseph, like all parents, realize slowly that this baby will take everything they have. The kid cries all the time. Mary still feels beat up, breastfeeding’s harder to figure out than she expected, and there’s so much laundry….so much laundry. And oh, lord, if only those long nights were silent. All of this is tempered with the slow realization that it’s only going to get harder. Yet somehow the smile on that baby’s face inspires parents of all kinds to keep going, even as the mistakes we inevitably make indict us on our own incapacity to live or learn or love perfectly.

Our reminder this morning – our basics – come in the form of a baby, whose fragility reminds us that our power is found in vulnerability, whose birthplace reminds us that God is the God of the downtrodden and exposed, whose initial worshippers remind us that God is the God of the queer, and the left-out and those on the margins. It will soon be his love that reminds us how we are meant to be in the world…love that prays not only for neighbors, but also for enemies…love that cares for the sick and the prisoner…love that supplants judgment and lives instead by grace and forgiveness.

These are the basics – to be love in the world, and to make peace and seek joy wherever we can. It’s the most simple and most complicated thing to do, equal parts possible and impossible, both inspiring and indicting, for truly living our lives rooted in love as our guiding principle would mean changing everything – social structures, educational systems, our politics, our economics, the very foundations of everything around us.

And if that’s right, then in order for the systems we use to govern ourselves and each other to be loving…they have to be just. And if they are not, we must be courageous and willing enough to change them.

My “for instance” starts right here in the sanctuary where you may (or may not) have noticed that we have changed the paraments – the fabric that adorns the pulpit and lectern and communion table. They were advent blue for awhile, and what we’re supposed to change them to for Epiphany is white, a color reserved for the holiest days, for the holidays that are most “pure.” Now maybe you don’t even think about that, but I’ll ask us to go back to our foundations, and our claims against racism and discrimination. Do we need to ask ourselves why white and purity have been so long associated? And is that the message that we wish to send in 2020, that “white” equals holy, or the “best?” My answer is no, and, for my part, I’ll no longer participate in that characterization, because symbolism matters, which is why the paraments are red today as we discuss a different color to use for our holiest days.

That’s just a small way of asking a question that is more provocative than ever – what does it mean to be a Christian? So many of us have dealt with being “Christian buts’ – I’m a Christian BUT, I don’t believe in that way, because what it means to be Christian has been defined in ways that we’re uncomfortable with at best. Our foundations lie in some different choices, some questions we ought to consider.

• Do you think the point of being Christian, the major issues that one ought to be concerned with are LGBTQ people and controlling women’s reproductive choices, or do you think that poverty and oppression are bigger agenda items for a Christian life?
• Are we to be pro-war, heading off to various parts of the world “with God on our side,” waving our flag as if it were holiness itself, or are we to be peacemakers, seeing war as a failure, dedicating our allegiance not to shallow patriotism but to the depth and sacrifice it takes to follow the Prince of Peace?
• Are we to nurture and make decisions from our fear, or are we to resist the fear present in us all – fear of “the other,” fear of difference, fear of change?
• Are we to consume any and all resources there are because God made them for us, or to be the stewards of this great gift of planet earth?
• Are we to use the Bible as a hammer to smash other people with, or use it most sharply as a tool for our own self-illumination?
• Are we to mistrust those whose skin color is different from our own, whose life seems lived in ways contrary to the way we live ours, or are we to seek God’s presence in diversity, rooting out the evils of racism, sexism and bigotry of all kinds that has so plagued us and the systems we have built?
• Finally, can we see today that the most stark example of what it means to be Christian, the most clear illustration of the choice we might make, the “type” of Christian we will be, is found in how we would seek to respond to people seeking refuge on our border…it is found in what we would do to a child in desperate need, particularly at the time of year we proclaim the birth of the child we claim to worship, born poor and oppressed to a woman with some atypical reproductive choices, at a time of war, seeking refuge with his family, fleeing tyranny and the abuse of power.

This is the Sunday of Epiphany – a word that means the perception of essential meaning. What a good time God has set for us to take stock, to open our eyes, to have that light go off over our heads and to find great clarity of vision. A time to re-assess and count our blessings, for there are many. And then a time to resolve for the year to come that we are indeed Christians – little Christs – and we will act accordingly.

May God’s Grace and Love guide us all.

Amen.

Sermons represent copyrighted material and are not to be reproduced, transcribed, or used in any form without the permission of Rev. Chris Moore or the speaker for that day.

Isaiah 7:10-16 & Matthew 1:18-25

Public disclaimer time: Isaiah is not talking about Jesus, the so-called “Old Testament” is not predictive of, nor replaced by the “New Testament” and Christianity is not the fulfillment of Judaism. It seems important on the last Sunday of Advent, and as the evening marks the beginning of Hanukkah, to say those things. And saying them might remind us that these two great religions are actually in conversation with one another, like deeply connected cousins, marked by the reality that our holidays often correspond, and our Christian sacraments – baptism and communion – have deep connections to the Jewish rituals of Kiddush, the blessing of the wine after worship, and Mikva, the ritual immersion that is still part of a Jewish conversion ceremony.

It’s important to note these things at this time because Christmas is one of those moments where our scriptures get intertwined, and where the tradition has blurred these lines and asserted this position of Christian dominance, and such language leads to horrible ends, as witnessed by history many, many times. So, at the birth of the Prince of Peace, as well as this moment in our nation’s history, it seems a good time to ask us all to consider what makes for peace. And it begins with how we talk about each other, and to consider, as we wrestle with our divisions, the ways that we are also connected. For we all have our stories, our stories of power and meaning-making, that shape who we are – sometimes the same story shaping people in different ways.

I have found, through years of interfaith dialogue, that the wisdom and Spirit of God is found in the conversations between perspectives, for all of our spiritual wisdom stories are more than just one thing…they are many things, all revealing an aspect of the God who is bigger than all our imaginations, and greater than all our possibilities. We get to talk about and imagine the infinite, but only through the languages and lenses of the finite. As human beings, we get a lifetime of finite stories – instances of peace, of war, of loss, of success, of failure and tragedy, joy and happiness, profound mistakes and intimate connections – a collection of finite circumstances that fit into an infinite narrative. We only have the ability to perceive (and occasionally understand) the finite…God works in the realm of the infinite.

Isaiah’s proclamation is not an infinite one, though it is part of an infinite story. It is finite. The Hebrew used in this passage is clear that Isaiah is speaking about his time, his place. When he says, “Look, the young woman is with child…”, it is a declarative statement, like, “Look, over there, at this young woman I am pointing towards.” He does not mean it to be an infinite declaration about Jesus, but a finite declaration about someone in his time and his place, a statement that declares a sign from God that will bring about some peace they are hoping for in their context…a finite peace that has to do with the fear of invasion being negated in the short timeframe of a child’s early development.

And yet, as so often happens, that finite declaration becomes tied to a more infinite story, for we all end up longing for peace in our own time – peace as in the absence of war, but also peace in our own relationships, in our vocations, our community, our own lives. And when the writers of our Christmas story longed for that same peace, they heard those words of Isaiah an re-interpreted them. This time of year in our tradition we celebrate the birth of the “Prince of Peace” because that’s what we say Jesus brings –peace as salvation, the kind of salvation that the angel tells Joseph Jesus will bring, the kind of peace that Isaiah lifted up also. And that peace at Christmas begins with a “yes” from these soon-to-be parents, Mary and Joseph.

I have to confess, as a parent, that these birth narratives from Matthew and Luke both inspire and terrify me. Parenting can be, on it’s best days, a white-knuckle ride of debate about nature versus nurture, second-guessing your decisions and hoping that your own fears are not limiting your kids’ futures. Then add to that mix an angel who tells you magnificent things about what your kid will do and you have what I imagine would be a LOT of sleepless nights, a constant conflict between the finite world of raising kids and the infinite world of human possibility. Might Mary and Joseph have reminded each other of this promise of Jesus’ greatness after Jesus broke another water pitcher running through the house, or hit his brother with a rock, or when he missed his curfew again?

We all trust in a future hoped for, but not yet seen. And we are often limited by t=our own fear, trapped in what we think is likely, unable to imagine what is possible.

The beauty of the Christmas story is that when faced with the prospect of the impossible…the choice between assuming the outcome that they’ve seen play out a hundred times and trusting in the possibility that the movement of God in the world can make the unlikely happen, both Mary and Joseph – inexplicably – choose to trust. They choose yes. It is the same yes that their son will choose, when faced with the option to love without exceptions or do what everyone else does – he loves, even to the point of facing the power of his day with that love.

Of course, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. It’s still only Advent in our calendars…we are not even at the birth yet, in our grand re-telling of this Christmas tale. There’s still so much of the story left to unfold. We are at the promise. And in the great drama of the church, we are to imagine that we are being asked to birth the Christ child, to parent that baby, to expose ourselves to risk, to challenge, even to scorn. This is now only the possibility of peace, in one way of looking at it, if the participants will have it. And it begins with yes.

Mary’s yes is to a plan from the visiting angel Gabriel, presumably the only heavenly being she has ever witnessed, telling her, an engaged but not yet married young woman, that she was going to have a child and name him Jesus, and he will be given the throne of David and will reign over the House of Jacob not just for his lifetime, but forever –

a statement, in the face of Roman oppression, that seems absurd. It is, quite frankly, an impossible scenario. She knows what will happen if she shows up pregnant right now, her parents will kill her. By Biblical standards – and this is real, you can look it up – they could literally kill her. And then this whole thing of her kid, a boy born out of wedlock to a poor couple in the country becoming King? Ludicrous.

And Joseph’s yes comes to him in the first of a series of dreams that will visit him, telling him of a future in imagery, in partial descriptions, in fanciful promises that he will place his trust in because…well, we don’t know why? I suspect that people around him in his day and age questioned his decisions, maybe even called him foolish for this behavior. For what he was talking about was impossible.

But Christmas is all about the impossible. We wouldn’t be re-telling this story 2000 years later if it was onlya tale of something totally mundane. We keep telling it because it is the story of God acting in the mundane – of God known to us in flesh and bone.

We celebrate this birth with pomp and circumstance, rarely bringing up Mary’s contractions, or what might have been hard labor in difficult circumstances. We talk about visiting shepherds and cattle that are self-aware enough to bow their heads, not of the blood and sweat and tears and the struggle that goes along with all births. We sing “Away in a Manger,” where the little baby Jesus “no crying he makes,” which certainly could have happened, though, like many parents, I have some serious doubts about the solemnity of that moment. The laying down of his sweet head part surely comes after the less mentioned screaming his head off part…or the biting during nursing part…or the gassy kid who spits up all over Mary’s new shawl. And yet, that is also where the majesty and glory of God show up…a message we also need to hear at Christmas, where “yes” brings new life right here, among and in our own bodies, deeply connected to this world of struggle and conflict and compromise.

Our finitude is connected deeply to infinity, our flesh linked to Spirit. This truth lies at the heart of the Christmas story. God does not live in purity and isolation, but resides with us here in the dirt, knowing our pain, knowing our effort, knowing our strength and our weakness. This birth shows us that God will not only show up in the most visceral moments of our lives, but will show up precisely in the places we don’t ever expect God to be, asking for a yes to God’s plan to connect to all of us, to save all of us, to bring Hope and Joy and Peace and Love to all of us. Such a yes will ask us to face our own prejudices, and to reimagine God, for, if we’re paying attention, God will take form exactly where we think we can’t go and ask us to go there.

The first part of Christmas, you see, before the birth and the “Joy to the World” and the presents and the meal…the first part is the yes. Matthew tells the story from Joseph’s perspective, Luke from Mary’s…and that story now resides in us, to be told from our perspective, asking us to consider our own yes even in the most mundane parts of our own lives. Will we say yes this year to God born in and among us, right in the middle of our lives, ready, willing and able to transform that which we think is hopeless? Will we say yes by helping that one person in a finite way, while we reach for the infinite? Will we say yes by speaking words of kindness just once, knowing that’s part of something much bigger? Will we say yes by speaking out on behalf of one person who is bearing the weight of oppression, though that will not end the oppression? Will we, finally, listen for the voice of angels, bringing the message of Love making a way out of no way, asking us to marry ourselves to God’s plan of drawing our circle ever wider, doing justice, loving kindness and walking with God in humility? Will we hear that choir of angels telling us, again this Christmas…do not be afraid?

In this blessed time of Advent, almost to Christmas, with four candles lighting our way, may you feel held in the circle of God’s love. Rest there and find your way to yes.

Amen.

Sermons represent copyrighted material and are not to be reproduced, transcribed, or used in any form without the permission of Rev. Chris Moore or the speaker for that day.

Isaiah 35:1-10 & Luke 1:39-56

Every year, at Advent, this passage from Luke comes up, often next to a passage from Isaiah also dreaming of an age to come where things are very different. It’s one of the few passages that gets exposure every single year in the lectionary, almost as if the organizers of the collection of scriptures that guide many worship services across the world wanted to be sure that it was heard. There are countless commentaries on Mary’s words here from Luke’s gospel, and they almost all use one word to describe these 17 lines — revolutionary.

Now I’m not sure if you’re feeling revolutionary right now. Maybe you are. There’s plenty of reason to feel that way – a trip to the mall this time of year, for instance, brings up feelings of armed insurrection for many of us. And then there’s also the state of our nation, our state, our city – the world, even. But what I mean is this season in the church, this pre-Christmas Advent. Does Advent seem revolutionary to you? Does this time of year scream economic justice to you, or turning the world upside down, or revolution? Or does this lead-up to Christmas feel like more like a time to settle into traditions, go with the flow and get the list checked-off so that the events can happen…just like last year and the year before that, etc.? It’s hard to overemphasize how oddly this passage rings in our ears, a passage decrying the presence of economic injustice while we are assaulted with messages of consumption driven by an economy that we know doesn’t work for everyone at all, with decisions being made by the 1% for the 1%, in the midst of an election cycle in which the influence of money is no longer even being hidden at all – the more money you have, the better chance you’ve got. You have to have enough of it to qualify for a debate!

The suffering is all around us, and the numbers really don’t look all that good, unless you’re privileged enough to have a 401K. The signs of hate and division, conflict and war…they’re all over the place. The same things that Mary decries in this passage from 2000 years ago reside with us still. It doesn’t seem like revolution is impending, or that the presence of God is anywhere near.

Yet the whole theme of Advent is the intrusion of God into our world, the development of patience in an impatient world, the reality of God-with-us as an enfleshed reality…something that is real and tangible, not just a hoped for dream. Yet it comes to us in a baby…born in a manger somewhere where there are no cameras, where there’s not even cell coverage…born in the quiet of the back corners. This is a very hard story to tell in a church that is more often focused on triumphalism and the celebration, rather than incarnation or revolution.

The Franciscan teacher Richard Rohr tells us that the wisdom of the church is taking huge, cosmic, infinite mysteries like the second coming of Christ and distilling it into finite, calendered periods of time, like Advent…which announces again the coming of Jesus…the second coming which hasn’t yet happened and is always happening. It asks us every year to consider what our own blockages are to that arrival, what our resistance is to the revolution that Mary announces…a Mary who herself has to wrestle with her own commitment to this whole Jesus thing, an angel announcing to her that God’s work is to be done through her. She says yes to this…what do we say, for the angel has the same announcement for each of us, in that infinite sense…God is born, God is enfleshed in each of us all of the time. Are we willing to look for that?

Which begs another question – is God really ignoring what’s happening in the world, or are we just looking in the wrong places for God’s action?

Mary’s words have been formed over the centuries into a song, a canticle, one of the most ancient of Christian hymns – what we call the “Magnificat.” It is not a fanciful dream of lions and lambs, but a poignant and direct response to the times in which Mary lives. Mary takes the metaphorical language of Isaiah and makes it concrete, speaking of the powerful brought down from their thrones and the lowly lifted up, the hungry filled with good things and the rich sent away empty – it is a reversal of the reality in which she lives. This is Mary taking the blessing given directly to her by the angel and spreading it out, switching from “the Lord has done great things for me” to broader language about God’s saving power released upon the whole community – a shift from her suffering to compassion for others. She takes her blessing and shares it in a vision of God’s saving power poured out on the world, wrapped in the language of Joy.

There’s a perhaps legendary account that claims the military junta in 1980s Guatemala banned the public recitation of Mary’s words. I’m not sure there’s evidence to back this up, but if it did happen, it would have indicated that the political bosses understood what she was saying, perhaps more than many of us who hear or sing these words each year, for the implications of this kind of radical joy, this revolution of compassion are immense and perhaps even frightening.

Mary imagines a reversal, some justice that kind of looks like payback for those who have exploited others for so long, and Jesus, her son who surely heard these same revelations from his mother’s mouth, takes them a step further. He delivers not just an inversion of the pyramid, where the ones on the bottom get to be on the top, for we all know what happens when that is the extent of justice – the downtrodden become the downtrodders, the exploited exploit. No, Jesus delivers a kin-dom founded on mercy, on justice delivered through love, of accountability and responsibility shaped through the lens of grace. Jesus asks us to not simply seek revenge, as tempting as that can be, but to look into our hearts so that we’re not simply replicating the very thing that we work against…he delivers to us a revolution in our own hearts, and then into the world…he hands to us a re-visioning tool, a reframing, revolutionary approach, and he calls this – Joy.

Jesus is not handing out happiness. He is not offering us “feel good”, nor is he offering us some new packaging for our current ideals. Joy is counter-cultural, it is revolutionary in and of itself, particularly for us here in our context. Sister Simone, of the famous traveling, havoc-wreaking, trouble-making Nuns on a Bus, says that Joy is one of the virtues that we must recover in our time and place, as a revolutionary act, because joy is a communal virtue. You can’t go off by yourself, wallowing in your individualism, and create joy. Joy comes from connection, which is precisely what community craves, what democracy craves, and what the Kin-dom is all about. Joy is the antidote for the fear and aggression that is produced by individualism – the idea that we’re all ultimately on our own, with only ourselves and, typically, our trusty six-shooter to save us. That’s the ideology that pushes us behind locked gates, that builds walls, that punishes instead of rehabilitating, that divides and hoards and hates and stacks-the-decks so that the illusion of control is maintained at all costs. We’re seeing it lived out to what feels like the fullest extent right now. And what stands in contrast to that is Joy.

That’s not always a ready commodity at the so-called “most wonderful time of the year.” We have a “Blue Christmas” service this coming Wednesday night because I know that many would say they’re not feeling any joy at all. This is why during this time of the church calendar we lift up the birth of Jesus, a time that doesn’t necessarily correspond to the actual birth of Jesus, mind you – we don’t really know when that was. But this is the time that we remind ourselves of this story of hope and joy – in the deep, darkness of winter, in the cold and the gloom, in what used to be (before the invention of electricity) an even more difficult time to navigate. Now is when we emphasize the community, the connection, the Kin-dom, the linkages that make for Joy. Now is when we make these outlandish claims about the great reversal of injustices, the Kin-dom come to fruition, the Christ – the power of God incarnate — born to us in a tiny, fragile, helpless baby.

Joy comes to us as a great mystery. Like laughing at a funeral or crying your way through the happiest moment of your life, Joy doesn’t make sense. It comes when it’s not supposed to and lingers when you think that something else should be occupying the space. Why, one might ask this year, with all of the crud going on around us, should we feel joyful? Well, I don’t know if we should, I just know that we can, for the gift of Christmas is choice. God doesn’t operate on coercion or force, despite what some might have you think. God works on consent – we , like Mary, must choose to participate in the Kin-dom come, so the pronouncement of the now 300 year-old song is true – Joy to the World, the Lord is come – but only if you choose it. For joy does not just happen, we have to choose it, to look for it, to reframe the world around us so that we can connect to it.

Mary chooses to see the angel’s vision, to accept the words meant for her, which I assure you was quite in conflict with the other voices around her. She chooses to frame her situation, her life, her world, through the pronouncement of Christmas Joy. In one way of looking at it, the Christmas story is just the rather problematic story of a child born out of wedlock, against all the social rules, to what is likely now an ostracized couple in abject poverty in the backwoods of the Roman Empire as the imperially supported King in Jerusalem places an order for all male children to be slaughtered. It’s not a happy tale. So, why are we celebrating? Because we have reframed this story. We have reimagined it in light of the Easter story that we know is coming. We have imagined it as the beginning of God’s direct intervention in the world, God-made-flesh, living with us and for us and in us. We choose the re-frame it each and every year, which is why we tell this story and sing these carols, and light these candles. Because reframing is the work of Joy. It is the essence of Joy, the imagination of Joy, the power of Joy…joy as the infallible sign of God’s presence among us, the echo of God’s life within us, joy that lets us sing, as an act of holy reframing –

My heart shall sing of the day you bring, let the fires of your justice burn…

wipe away all tears, for the dawn draws near, and the world is about to turn.

Joy to the world. The Lord is come.

Sermons represent copyrighted material and are not to be reproduced, transcribed, or used in any form without the permission of Rev. Chris Moore or the speaker for that day.

Isaiah 11:1-10 & Matthew 3:1-12

The Peaceful Kingdom. That is the title, the heading, for this passage from Isaiah in the New Revised Standard Version. Isaiah lists all of these signs of peace – wolves living with lambs, cows and bears grazing together, a children placing their hands in a den of snakes. It’s lovely imagery and I’m also not sticking my hand into a hole in the ground anytime soon. For the signs are not here. Wolves don’t lie down with lambs, they devour them. And lions don’t eat straw. The Kingdom is not peaceful.

Of course they knew that then, and they didn’t actually see those signs, either. But Isaiah persists. He knows they see a dead stump, the possibilities of growth and renewal and life cut down by the forces around them. So, he imagines the shoot sprouting forth from what is thought dead, he imagines possibility where there is none. What he does NOT imagine is Jesus, for Isaiah is speaking to his time – this is not a predictive text, but a hopeful one. So hopeful that the followers of Jesus, some hundreds of years later, would borrow this language to make sense of Jesus in their time, inspired by that same hope. Isaiah’s words speak beyond his time 300 years ago, they speak past 2,000 years ago during the days of Jesus, they speak even to us today – for it’s always hard to imagine wolves lying down with lambs. It’s equally hard to imagine peace, because we don’t know what that looks like.

My two children have never lived in a United States that wasn’t at war. Let me say that again – 17^th year old senior in high school and my 15 year old sophomore have not been alive during a time of “peace,” defined by us not being at war. I’m not sure that’s peace, but it does seem the bare minimum. Any dreams we might have of a world with no war are just that – dreams. In fact, they’re not even dreams, for a whole generation doesn’t know what it means to not be at war. Historians note that during the reign of Augustus Caesar, from 27 BCE – 14 CE, the Roman army was not engaged in combat somewhere in the vastness of the empire for a total of 35 days. That’s 35 days in 41 years! The Pax Romana, the Roman “peace,” was anything but peaceful, and the people who wrote our scriptures knew it…they lived it. They lived it so much, and for so long, that they began to think of peace as something beyond the absence of war, as something other than a blissful utopia (which seemed a pipe dream). They began to think of peace as something more than just quiet.

Peace may not seem like a natural state for us, given that we’re always warring with one another. Then again, maybe it is our natural state, one that we’ve ignored or been tempted away from, like the Eden fable reveals…part of us, but so covered up by other stuff that we have to do some heavy-duty excavation. The Baptist’s coarse language, a shock during this relatively joyous time of Advent, insists that we have to do this kind of work. We have to turn around – to literally change direction. Nothing short of that abrupt shift will do. You can’t ease into it, or decide that you can have peace after all the conditions are just so. It is a trajectory, an orientation. Now, what this passage fails to impart is that the act of repentance isn’t a singular event. You don’t just do it once, wash your hands and move on. You have to choose it again and again and again. For there’s a rip current in this world, dragging us in a particular direction, at it isn’t towards peace, unless that “peace” is something being sold to us.

The word that is most often translated as peace in the Greek Testament is eirene, from the verb eiro, which means to join or bind together that which has been separated. It conveys a sense of internal well-being, of harmony, and not the absence of conflict or stress. Eirene forms the basis of our word in English – serene, as in serenity. And serenity isn’t a place, it is a state of being. Problem is, we get sold serenity (or peace) like they’re some place, some state we can permanently achieve if we have the right thing, or enough money, or the right house, or, worse yet, it’s a pill or a drink that can magically transport us to that idealized locale whenever the stresses get too much.

Like the people on the side of the Jordan with John, we can easily think that a ritual or an external action will bring us this prized thing we call peace. It works off an old and seemingly intractable theology – an act of ritual will appease God, avert judgement, and set the world right. But that’s not what John says. He tells those surrounding him to repent, not offering up his baptism as a magic fix at all, just an outward sign of what he asserts must happen inside.

Repent. When you’ve done something that doesn’t make for peace, turn around. Make a different choice. You don’t keep doing the same thing and expecting different results. Yes, repentance means judgment, but we should be very precise with that word in light of the ways it has been misused. This kind of judgment is what you pronounce on yourself, or with the help of people who love and know you. It is recognition that we are not perfect, that we make mistakes. Such judgment may bring with it some healthy guilt for things done wrong, but it does not shame. It recognizes the thing that we all have in common – we all mess up. We all make poor decisions. We all miss the mark.

And when we do, what we do next can make for peace, or not. It can leave us feeling free, or like we are trapped, imprisoned by that mistake. We have all known someone, or perhaps we ARE someone, who has borne the weight of a mistake in the past but never engaged in the work needed to make amends for that mistake. So, we bear it…and then it becomes so much a part of us that we cannot release it, we even get defensive about it if someone brings it up. We do this as individuals and also as a culture. We will soon recognize 100 years since the race massacre here in Tulsa, an event that we seem unable to recognize effectively or release fully, because we don’t repent, and WON’T repent because it would mean admitting we have been wrong, wrong in the way that we have structured our systems, wrong in the ways that we value each other and wrong in our legendary stories we tell about our city, state and nation. So, it lingers…it hangs on us, and it’s impact imprisons us just as surely as if we were locked away.

Repentance is about setting ourselves free, not about shame. And it’s more than just personal, it is something we do for ourselves AND something we can and should do as a whole people. Isaiah calls for ISRAEL to repent – the whole nation. And John speaks of us individually, but also knows, in fact will know in the most visceral sense very soon, of the power of political and social systems and what repentance must take place in a collective sense in order for them to change. Repentance, in this way of seeing it, is about freedom.

Remember that the appearance of John the Baptist, as Matthew points out by pulling in some words from Isaiah, is not about judgment, it’s about a return from exile! It is about escape from the exile in Babylon, in Isaiah’s context, and escape from the exile in the empire of Rome, in Matthew’s context. And the spiritualtruth here is that “turning around” delivers the kind of peace we seek. When we just go through the motions, when we talk a good game but do nothing, we are in trouble. When ritual replaces acts of mercy, when correct belief trumps love, we begin to hate and exclude those who do not bind their hand in the glove of our worship. We begin to breed the evil nastiness that is a nest of snakes, a brood of vipers, John would say.

John yells at us from knee deep in the muddy water – don’t think that repeated ritual or clinging to doctrinal purity will save you — do good all the time. This is, of course, an impossible directive. None of us can do good all of the time, so he follows with the call to repentance, for this is the formula that fosters something as vast and unachievable as salvation. This is the formula that brings us a sense of peace that lies beyond whether or not the circumstances are what we’d like them to be. For peace comes not from outside, but from within. When we root out the violence in our own hearts, when we practice living with compassion and mercy – first with ourselves and then with others – then real peace is possible. For learning to be peaceful as a spiritual practice is not for the peaceful times. Anyone can find peace when everything is going great and the world is calm. Peace as a spiritual practice is for the rough places, for the uphill slog, the heavy sledding. And peace as a spiritual practice begins with the act of contrition, with the acceptance of repentance as a way of life, for if we never become comfortable with owning and dealing with our mistakes, we will always be imprisoned by them. We don’t get to reconciliation without truth, we don’t get to forgiveness without confession, and we don’t get to wholeness without repentance.

When we forget this eternal truth, or when we turn it into a weapon to be used against other people instead of directed first and foremost at ourselves, we can create an atmosphere where another mass shooting happens and we do nothing, where another trans woman is murdered and we change no laws, where a 16 year-old Carlos Gregorio Hernandez Vasquez can catch the flu and die in custody of our government which will deny, obfuscate and stay the course, because we cannot, or will not, turn away form the things that we think are good for us, which have brought us the same artificial peace that the Pax Romana brought, the lies and legends that have formed us as a nation, built on the hierarchy of human beings, and the subjugation of some by others. That may be many things, but it isn’t the Gospel that Jesus brings, nor is it peaceful.

The peace that Jesus promises belongs to a new way of being. And Advent is here to remind us that we do not seek the best of the world that is, we seek a new world altogether. For Jesus is born to usher in a new kin-dom, and Advent is our preparation time – preparation for a revolution of love and hope. A revolution that begins with us turning around, turning towards one another, and seeking a new way to be in the world, imagined in the voices of our youngest, pictured in the imagery of the season, set forth in the story of a baby born to us again – possibility itself wrapped in swaddling clothes, soft and vulnerable, and placed in the manger – a revolution of peace waiting to happen.

Come, O long expected Jesus – born to set ALL people free. Grant us the wisdom and the courage to accept our own salvation. Amen.

Sermons represent copyrighted material and are not to be reproduced, transcribed, or used in any form without the permission of Rev. Chris Moore or the speaker for that day.

Matthew 1:1-17 & Matthew 24:36-44

This is how Advent begins – with a lengthy and kind of boring genealogy followed by a what seems like an “end times” warning, a kind of shocking tale in which one is taken and one is left. Doesn’t seem very much in the spirit of the season, no angels singing, no bells ringing, no mention of a sale at all. Matthew knew as he offered up his version of the gospel story that people needed more fuel for their imaginations. Perhaps they had read Mark’s gospel, written probably a decade earlier, or perhaps they had in their heads the myriad of stories told about Jesus, but it apparently wasn’t enough. They had all been waiting for Jesus to return, just as the stories told them, and they were tired of waiting. They wanted change now.

So, Matthew did some imagining for them, the trick of a good writer, and lifted up the memory of King David, the perhaps somewhat idealized King of Israel. And he made a connection to that image with some good Jewish tradition – through genealogy. Jesus was related to David, Matthew claimed, and by David to the line of Abraham. Now, any cursory examination of this long list of names reveals something pretty quickly – Jesus is being traced through his father, until his father’s line doesn’t match up, and Matthew switches, not once, not twice, but three times from the patrilineal line to the matrilineal, and then back again. Matthew’s genealogy is a pretzel, twisting and turning over on itself. And you might be asking – so what? I mean what does that really matter? One way to look at it is that Matthew was very interested in his readers seeing the story of Jesus, the figure of Jesus, as rooted in tradition.

Another way to see it is that Matthew wanted to impart something more subversive – so he made the genealogy switch not only to women, but even to foreign women – like Ruth – including everyone in Jesus’ story, as if the gospel cannot be told through patriarchal structures, nor through the lens of xenophobia. Yet we know that people in Matthew’s day would have looked around as they heard this and said to themselves – this is not the way things are. But, Matthew says, God calls to us in the midst of our anxiety about the state of the world and reminds us – it doesn’t have to be this way. So, even in such a simple thing, a genealogy, Matthew delivers to us the action of God that defies our expectations, and does not behave the way we anticipate. Jesus will also not behave the way we expect…he will speak in riddles and parables, and make us scratch our heads as much as warm our hearts, which brings us to the little apocalyptic piece later in Matthew’s gospel.

Now, I would not blame you if you hadn’t noticed that every Advent season begins with some version of an apocalyptic text from the Bible. So, before we even get to birth story, we have this account of the “end.”

Then two will be in the field; one will be taken and one will be left.

Two women will be grinding meal together; one will be taken and one will be left.

Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.

It doesn’t exactly scream “Merry Christmas,” does it? Any of you with “rapture theology” in your background will feel some familiar strains, complete with their overt message about the “chosen,” and, of course, the NOT chosen. I hate to break it to you, but you’re going to church here now, you’re no longer chosen. But the good news is, the whole rapture thing isn’t real anyway, so you have that going for you.

Meanwhile, the scriptural tradition IS having us focus on this thing we tend to call the “second coming”, at a time when we’ve got our eyes on the manger (and maybe our presents, too). Why is that? There is a lot of speculation that Matthew wrote his gospel to an audience that was growing weary of the wait. Jesus was supposed to set all things right, and things are not all right, so when was he coming back to finish the job? And this weariness was impacted greatly by the reality that things weren’t so great. The people through whom the Gospel spread most rapidly were on the downside of empire, they were poor, hungry, buffeted by crisis after crisis, subjected to the whims of a power structure they seemed unable to affect. Matthew, it seems, thought it was time to write an account of Jesus that took part in this so-called “apocalyptic” orientation, which we often completely misunderstand in our day and age.

An apocalyptic orientation was a common literary genre in ancient days, it worked from the belief that history is divided into two ages, two eons in Greek — a current, corrupt age (often called this world in a derogatory tone) that God would soon replace with a new, holy age (often called the Kingdom or the realm, or what we call the kin-dom, of God or heaven). The current Kingdom is marked by idolatry, sin, injustice, exploitation, sickness, violence, and death. The Kin-dom to come will be characterized by the community, forgiveness, mutual support, health, blessing between nature and humankind, and life – even life beyond life, what we have called eternal life. All of this “end” language is not about destruction, it’s about birth, which is never without pain or struggle. It doesn’t have to be this way, Matthew writes to his readers, but it won’t be easy to change it.

Advent is the season of waiting, our tradition tells us, but not the kind of waiting that happens in the Doctor’s office. Don’t grab a magazine, don’t pull out your phone, this is Advent waiting. It is like children waiting for Christmas morning, with anticipation and hope and imaginations for what isn’t yet but will be. It’s like an expectant mother waiting on a birth, something which she has no control over at all. It’s like waiting for the medicine to take effect, it’s here, but not yet here, hoped for, and anticipated. It IS coming…it is almost here.

I have to say that “almost here” is not a comforting feeling these days. For the things that feel “almost here” are things I don’t want. Peace doesn’t feel “almost here,” nor does hope, most of the time. What does feel close are negatives – feelings of dread or anxiousness more than hope or joy. It feels as though we’re close to tipping the balance in a direction I don’t want the balance to go, like we’re backtracking on gains made or victories won, and that’s hardly inspirational.

Maybe that’s why Advent is more crucial than ever. Maybe that’s why I need to hear this story again, the story we’ve all heard a hundred times before, the story of a little baby born in the smallest of places to the people who the system says do not matter. It lets us hear, once again, how God works…which is not how we work…and to engage our hope once again, for we must have that if we are to really say, with all our hearts, that it doesn’t have to be this way. Advent gives us the space to engage our imaginations, to picture a world that is not yet here as we engage with the world which is here.

There is no singular event that will transform the world in a moment, no superman to fly down and change the course of history. There is, though, a God of presence, who is with us all as we step forward, asking us to seek the ways of the kin-dom, to do the things that make for life, to seek the good and the right, and to love in this world the best we can, where we are, with what we have. With God, our wholeness, our integrity, our salvation is a two-way street, it requires our participation. We have to pay attention to see things changing, for they won’t come in an instant, they’ll be born somewhere small, in a stable in the back, for we don’t make room in the main halls.

The baby is born, we say again this year, but Christ must be born again in our hearts, for if Christ stays an icon in a nativity scene, then we can take refugees like he was, lock them in cages and call it justice. But when he is born in our hearts, then we’re rooted in something deeper, knowing that we are connected one to the other, that our borders don’t matter as much as our shared humanity, and that God’s Love is for all people…

every – single – other.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

Amen.

Sermons represent copyrighted material and are not to be reproduced, transcribed, or used in any form without the permission of Rev. Chris Moore or the speaker for that day.

Deuteronomy 26:1-11 & Philippians 4:1-13

This is a story from the poet, Naomi Shihab Nye:
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours, I heard the announcement: If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she did this.
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
she stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
the lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.

And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African-American, one Mexican-American—ran around serving us all apple juice and lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
with green furry leaves.
Such an old country traveling tradition. Always carry a plant.
Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
this is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.

Welcome to the week of gratitude. We’re meant to squeeze it all into one far too large meal on Thursday, though there are plenty of suggestions, both is scripture and beyond, that we might ought to seek the path of gratitude as a regular habit, even as faithful practice. Gratitude can be a very powerful mood altering drug. It can be a paradigm-shifter, a worldview-altering game changer. Don’t believe me? Well, let’s just take the last week and do some reframing. Doesn’t it help, after all, that in the midst of some incredibly draconian immigration policies that we can still be grateful for people willing to help, and for a court system that refuses to punish someone for giving hungry people food? Doesn’t it help, as the iron grip of racism on our nation’s history gets exposed again and again, to be thankful for those doing the exposing and the myriad of small signs – in books and media representation and voices being raised — that people’s vision is changing? Doesn’t it help, as we all wrestle with the heavy weight of an impeachment investigation, to gratefully witness the testimony of courageous women and men – particularly women – who place country over party, and virtue over politics?

Gratitude shapes us. Gratitude does not ever ask us to ignore injustice or to numb pain or suffering, rather it allows us to work within those oppressions, things that can easily shut us down and imprison us. Being grateful for what we can, where we are, can help us not only see what is right around us, and appreciate the tools and gifts we have at hand, it opens up the world of possibility, allowing us a chance to see that in the worst of times, it’s not all bad. The practice of looking for something to be grateful for builds in us a capacity, it generates memories that we can take with us into the next challenges we might face.

But the reason I really want to suggest the power of gratitude to you today is not because it’s topical, or “’tis the season,” or because I’m going to, at any point EVER, say “attitude of gratitude.” It’s because gratitude is subversive. And, especially right now, the church ought to be all about being subversive…which we can do, I’m sad to report, by simply being the church.

Paul’s words to a small church community in modern day Greece, a place called Philippi, ought to echo in our ears – “…beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.” There’s clearly some conflict in this little church, something that has to do with leadership and maybe some miscommunication. I know, hard to imagine in church, but I guess it did happen before we solved all of that. What is compelling is that Paul doesn’t shy away from the conflict, nor does he gloss it over. He mentions it openly, because it involves two human beings and Paul seems to think that love has to be more than a tag line. Paul reminds this church that when things seem complicated and ambivalent that they should seek the truth, which always takes humility, to focus on the just, which requires some gratitude, to look on that which is honorable and worthy, on things that are authentic and compelling. Though he meant it for a community long ago in a very different place, we can be grateful for these words, for they lift up values that are just as crucial for us today…they stand in stark contrast to the cultural values we see around us, values like “might makes right,” “anything is OK as long as it makes money,” or “that’s just boys being boys.”

Paul rounds this claim of values out with a portion of his own story – a story of being content with what he has, of knowing what it is to have little and what it is to have plenty. In other words, a story of gratitude that he offers to a church that is worried, perhaps about a perceived lack, for this is often the cause of conflict and fear. Paul counters that with gratitude, because gratitude, I think Paul knows, leans into abundance, even in the appearance of scarcity. Gratitude helps us to seek out the places in our lives where there is something, even the smallest of things, because sometimes that is exactly where God resides – in the smallest, quietest thing. And, we ought to notice, it feeds our sense of humility, perhaps one of the most important spiritual attributes. For it is hard to be grateful if you feel entitled, and hard not to feel entitled if you cannot see how very little we create for ourselves. We are interconnected, all of us dependent on one another and God’s Grace to guide us through a world full of challenges.

Practicing gratitude develops in us a memory for such spiritual effort. It helps us to remember, in the tough times, previous tough times that we are now past. Such memory helps not only us to get through the new stuff, but also, hopefully, grants us some sympathy for others who are having tough times. The Deuteronomy passage is exactly this kind of work, instructing faithful Hebrews to remember this story – “A wandering Aramean was my ancestor; he went down into Egypt and lived there as an alien, few in number, and there he became a great nation, mighty and populous. When the Egyptians treated us harshly and afflicted us, by imposing hard labor on us, we cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors; the Lord heard our voice and saw our affliction, our toil, and our oppression.” This is a story of gratitude for God’s work in the world, a story of faith in the longer arc of the universe which we affirm is bending towards justice, even when we can’t see the curvature at all.

This is what we faithfully reproduce when we come to the table to share the tiny morsel that paradoxically signals God’s abundance…it’s what we nurture when we light a candle at the beginning of each service, bringing the light of Christ in with us and then taking it back out into the world at the end of service…it’s why we come to service at all, I think, which is more than just holy habit, but rather a chance to encounter one another again, to hear words spoken and sung that lift up new possibilities and to have a moment, just a moment, where the life of the kin-dom is set before us, wrapped in the stories from our past…stories of hope, of justice and of peace.

Gratitude is why we come to hear these same stories again and again and again. We’ll start Advent next Sunday as we work our way towards Christmas and we’ll hear again the story of a baby born, a story with absolutely ZERO surprises…and a story we need to hear again. For each time we hear our stories, the stories that give us identity, there is a chance to embrace them with humility and gratitude, listening for unheard voices and different angles, for we never have the complete story…there’s ALWAYS something more to be told, always another voice to add to the narrative, shaping how we hear and who we are because of it.

As we celebrate this week of Thanksgiving, it is a special time for us to remember our own past and the stories that inform it. For many of us, those stories must be re-told, mixed with courageous honesty and some contrition, but we ought to endeavor in that work nonetheless, for deep, sincere soul-searching is critically needed…especially during the times in which we might honestly and profoundly wonder – who are we?

This is a very good time – through story and tradition – to remember that we have much to be grateful for, most of all God’s abundant Love. But here’s a warning for your Thanksgiving gratitude: The counting of your blessings has the chance to disrupt a narrative of individualism… it might possibly interrupt a carefully constructed sense of isolation…it could turn us from selfishness, whose opposite is not selflessness, but rather is compassion, connection and mutuality, which would build an entirely different kind of world, right? Wouldn’t that be something to be grateful for?

Sermons represent copyrighted material and are not to be reproduced, transcribed, or used in any form without the permission of Rev. Chris Moore or the speaker for that day.

Isaiah 12 & Isaiah 65:17-25

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…your kin-dom come, your will be done…

on earth as it is in heaven. We say these words every single Sunday here, and many other churches, if not most of them, say them, too. Like Isaiah’s words of comfort and challenge from thousands of years ago, these are words of tension, prayers of what is not visible or known, but what could be.

What could be would fill up an entire Bible…and more.

On Thursday Scott and I closed up the office, drove up to the Dream Center and delivered the boxes and boxes of hygiene items that you all brought specifically to help those released from prison in this long overdue effort to reform our so-called “justice” system. At least some of those freed will come back to Tulsa, and we know that while their sentences have been commuted, the impact of years in prison, the fines and fees they’re still saddled with and the weight of a felony conviction will still hang on their necks like a millstone. So, it’s a small gesture to give them some of the supplies they might need, a sense of connection and community. It’s a vision of what could be, even as we wrestle with what is.

That’s what the church does, at least at its best. We address the “what is” and imagine the “what could be” as we learn together a biblical tradition and a gospel story that bears no illusions about the things that make us feel fearful and anxious all the time, while emphatically stating, over and over again, “do not fear.” Part of our task as the church is to bear forth this imagery, language and theology for a God who we cannot see and bring that stuff to life through people, who we can see. It is to dream, to dream BIG, and then to live that dream, even when we cannot see it at all. We call that faith.

These two sections of Isaiah represent a broad section of Jewish history. Isaiah, you see, is pieced together from a long tradition, rather than written all at once. Chapter 12, what scholars call “Second Isaiah,” was written down somewhere around 750 years before Jesus, and is mostly contained in Isaiah chapters 40-55, but also present here in 12. “Trito” or “Third Isaiah,” located in chapter 65, amongst other places, was written some 200 years later around 530 BCE. They represent an entire collection of writings from this prophet, or people speaking in his name, and they offer these words of comfort and affliction to generations. It is a time of hope, to be sure, but, Isaiah reminds them, in words that echo through the centuries, it is also a time to hold deep awareness of how things can go bad in a hurry. The imagery of wolves lying down with lambs, of plentiful crops and easy work…these are dreams born of knowing the inverse, dreams that you have when you are scraping by, when there’s nothing to eat and the wolves are at your door.

Hard times, Isaiah laments. These are hard times. But the hard times are coming to an end, and the world will be better – justice will be present, hope will be abundant and suffering will be no more. All of this is coming, though it’s not here yet, and it still isn’t.

In fact, this might be one of the most challenging parts of faith, for while it’s good to read these ancient writings and understand that “hard times” are ubiquitous with being human, it may also make us feel like we are being asked in each and every generation to live for what isn’t here yet. And like waiting on a bus in the rain or for that clock to indicate quitting time, we could understandably ask ourselves – when does it get here?

What Isaiah reminds us is that faith is something more than the realization. It is made, it is forged in the waiting. As we sing those dreams out loud, the other part of faithful living is that we should live like it isalready here, like justice ought to be expected, hope commonplace and suffering intolerable. Because living like that isn’t pollyanna positive thinking, it is a strategy…one that changes the world around us, by first shaping our hearts and then framing the way that we live. It’s what’s called a corollary argument – the second part of the statement is affirmed by the first. If the stressful times are coming to an end, and we can feel relief and comfort because of that, then the stressful times are already beginning to go away.

Isaiah’s words were so powerful, so effective in their evocation of this glorious time to come, that they were picked up again during another round of hard times, reinterpreted by the followers of Jesus and the early church, so much so that many Christians today think they were written to predict Christ, when they were actually written to predict hope in the time they originally served. Like good literature those words echo across time and space allow us to return to them. We can re-imagine, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” or “Ships at a distance have every man’s wish on board,” or even “Mr and Mrs. Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say they were perfectly normal, thank you very much”, for they are words that let us feel that hope again. And whether it’s Zora Neal Hurston, Dickens, J.K. Rowling’s long and troublesome adventures of a certain Mr. Potter, or the story of Jesus for that matter, such hope rekindles in us each time because we need it to.

We could certainly view the news of the past week…the last month…the last year…maybe even the whole of our lives as chaotic and anxiety producing. We can absorb data on gun deaths, domestic violence, homelessness, drug addiction, poverty, racism, human trafficking, on and on and on…and sink into a deeper and deeper hole. We could accept the assertion that this is just “how it is” and settle into protecting ourselves, isolating into a world of individualism. We could accept, to use the metaphor of Isaiah, that the temple is being rebuilt just for us and we can retreat behind its walls, shutting out those who scare or offend us and then we’ll find, just as Isaiah is warning, that we’ll have recreated the situation that tore down the first temple. Instead we have to step out in trust, and rely on the tools that have been given to us – love your neighbor, pray for those who persecute you, accept that the kin-dom of God is all around us right now.

So, we sing songs like, “Christ Will Come Again,” we lift up an age to come that will be different than now and our liturgy imagines a time of peace and justice. And, I think I know what you’re thinking because I’m thinking it too – that’s a lovely sentiment, but did you see the news? Another school shooting, Venice underwater, Australia on fire (just after California got put out), Hong Kong under virtual martial law, the horrific realization of how deeply cruel this administration’s policy on immigration has been, and an impeachment trial that reveals how deeply separated we are in our country. And death has held a particularly hard grip on this community lately – many in the circles close to us passing on, with the concurrent weight that we feel when death takes its toll. The kin-dom is all around us, pastor? Where, exactly?

Soon we will begin the Advent season, working our way towards Christmas, always celebrated with singing and celebration! And before that, we will have Thanksgiving. So, gratitude and praise will fill the next few weeks, which could seem quite in opposition to the general malaise I just described. Towards the end of the passage from the 12^th chapter of Isaiah, our first reading today, there’s suddenly a psalm. Not all of the psalms are contained in the book of Psalms, you know. It says:

Sing praises to God, for God has done gloriously;

let this be known in all the earth.

Apparently, Second Isaiah added these passages of good news to the existing canon of Isaiah so that the exiled in Babylon could fan the embers of their dormant faith into flame, if there were even embers. For most of those exiled for generations in a foreign land, the fire of faith had gone completely out. So, the prophet’s task was to preach something so clear – to blast a note so loud – that faith could be actually re-ignited, reborn in the hearts of a people whose faith had died.

As we witness the things that we are witnessing in the world around us, and contend with the tension and anxiety they bring, it can be quite easy to lose faith. Frankly, I sometimes have little left to argue for it, and find myself more often agreeing with those who are abandoning their hope and seeking to find some other means of coping. It’s completely understandable and, for me at least, also completely insufficient. None of those other coping mechanisms help me as well. I can’t find something other than faith to really carry me the way I need to be carried. I keep coming back to it because nothing seems as real to me as the mysterious, unknowable, unseen thing that we call God.

This is what binds us together as church, the living out of our faith. It’s why it’s hard to be a follower of Jesus in isolation, we need each other so that when some of us have faith as dim as a dying ember, others can fan the flame…when some of us have nothing but tears, others can be a shoulder to lean on, an ear to hear, a voice to offer sympathy…and when some of us can only hum the hymn softly, with little song left in our hearts, others can sing boldly.

The truth is, I cannot tell you how we will contend with the many issues we face as human beings on this planet – most of them self-inflicted. I cannot convey to you how the wounds will be healed, the pain will stop, the seemingly irreparable will be repaired. I can’t point out the kin-dom to you, at least not in doses big enough to matter in this sea of struggle. But I trust it’s there, all around us…and we are here to remind each other of God’s Love in that chaos…we are to prompt one another – do not fear, God is our salvation – not the next election cycle – and we should not fear, not the overdue bill, not the anxiety of what might happen, not even the death of someone we love deeply. Christ will come again we sing, and I believe that. I trust in it. I also expect it won’t be in the way we expect. It will come in the re-imagining of story, the re-purposing of hope, the re-living of a life of faith. God IS our salvation…our strength and our might…and with joy we will draw water from that well once more. The well that never runs dry.

Thanks be to God.

Amen.